


Countless Times

by Blood_Sucker_1428



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, The Abominable Bride spoilers, mythea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 17:53:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5636317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blood_Sucker_1428/pseuds/Blood_Sucker_1428
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes was an addict. Countless times he had proven this to be true. It seemed like an absurd concept to most people, but Sherlock Holmes was an addict and countless times Anthea swore that one day his abuse and occasional overdose might be the end of his brother. If not for Anthea, that was. Prompt given to me on Tumblr. Mythea.</p><p>Prompt: Maybe Anthea comforting Mycroft after one of Sherlock's overdoses? Either the most recent one in the Abominable Bride or one from before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Countless Times

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I’m still stuck in a sea of feels from the special so I wanted to write a one shot to get some of the feelings out. I asked for prompts on Tumblr and an anonymous gave me this idea… Which didn’t really help get rid of the feels… kind of added to some of it. It was cathartic in a way, though. I don’t often do this type of fic so I hope you like it. Please let me know what you think, I’m a tad nervous. Also, I made this so it fit into my other Mythea fics but it doesn’t have to take place in the same universe. Please read, comment, and enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer: Clearly I don’t own Sherlock. The show is the baby of Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss, while Sherlock Holmes itself is the creation of Arthur Conan Doyle.

Sherlock Holmes was an addict. Countless times he had proven this to be true.

It seemed like an absurd concept to most people but before Anthea had even known Sherlock the man, she knew of Sherlock the addict.

Sherlock Holmes was an addict and countless times Anthea swore that one day his abuse and occasional overdose might be the end of his brother. If not for Anthea, that was.

* * *

 

The first time was before Anthea had met Sherlock. She knew of him, had watched CCTV footage of him, but had never met him.  She received a call from Mycroft to come relieve him from sitting vigil by his brother’s hospital bed so he may go to work.

When Anthea had got there she was shocked. Mycroft Holmes, down to his shirtsleeves, leaning on his umbrella like a crutch, was sitting by the bedside of his unconscious brother looking positively heart broken. Anthea didn’t know Mycroft too well at this point, but she’d known this was a big deal.

He’d looked up at her with loss in those steely eyes and she’d felt something in her heart snap. The Ice Man was supposed to be invulnerable. Yet his little brother had reduced him to a nervous wreck. Anyone else, Anthea might have hugged them. Would have hugged them. For Mycroft the best thing she could do was be supportive.

She’d taken his place, sent him off, and sat watching until Detective Inspector Lestrade came to relieve her of her shift.

Anthea had flowers on her desk Monday morning.

* * *

 

The second time she hadn’t known about it. Not until she couldn’t really be of any use anyway.

They were in his office going over a list of items that had to be sorted right now. Anthea had noted from the moment she entered that Mycroft looked tired. There were dark circles around his red tinted eyes, and the front of his hair was falling forward. She’d chosen to ignore it, he’d hate to be told he didn’t look well. So Anthea read everything on the list, slowly watching as Mycroft got more fidgety and restless. By the time she’d gotten to the tenth item on the list he’d lost his ever present cool, let alone his ice.

 “Oh for God’s sake!” He snapped, yelling at her. “What good are you if you can’t do any of this yourself?” Anthea flinched but stayed stony face and held her ground. This was extremely out of character and something had to be up. “I swear!” He threw his hands in the air. “Is everyone in this world utter idiots except for me?” His hands clenched tight on the arms of his chair to the point of going white, as he turned his head to glare at his filing cabinets. Anthea counted to three in her head, took a breath and continued.

 “With all due respect, sir. These are all people you wish for me to bring straight to you.” She hooked her pen to the file she was holding, and clutched it to her chest. “If you want me to make these decisions myself, I am more than capable of doing so.”

 “Please!” Mycroft scoffed, not even looking in the direction of his PA. Anthea pursed her lips and nodded. No point arguing with your boss when he was one of the most powerful men in England. Turning on her heels she began walking to the door. She was almost out when she heard the extra sentence. “For once I’d like not to have to clean up the whole country’s messes.” Cleaning up messes. Ah. Anthea bit her lip, shaking her head to herself. She should have known, known from the minute she saw him. It was obvious. The strain might not have made it clear straight away, but Anthea should have been able to tell by the lack of focus and the fighting. He was worried, and there was only one person Mycroft Holmes ever worried about. She turned back around to face Mycroft. She stood and waited for Mycroft’s eyes to finally travel to her own.

 “Where did you find him?” She asked. Mycroft’s eyes shot down to the page, his lips pulling down.

 “A decrepit house downtown.” Anthea sighed. She stepped forward and came to sit down on the chair facing Mycroft’s desk.

 “Sir.” He looked up at her with his tired eyes. “You don’t need to clean up all the messes by yourself.” She smiled sadly. “I am more than capable of helping. I’m also really good at listening.” A pause. “Or sitting in silence.” That earned her not quite a smile, but it certainly took the dour look off of her boss’ face.

They sat there quietly for two minutes. Mycroft played with a pen in his hand, deep in thought, while Anthea watched his hands move with all the grace in the world. She was always hypnotised by his movements, and in this solemn silence it only seemed to capture her more.

 “You’re not an idiot.” Mycroft all but whispered. Anthea looked up to his face as soon as she made out what the small voice had said. She wasn’t sure if that was an apology or a thank you. Either way, it was fine. She hated seeing the Ice Man crack. She tucked her hair behind her ear and smirked.

 “You better remember that.” She joked, her own version of saying you’re welcome, or accepting the apology. Mycroft heaved a sigh and placed his pen down.

 “Alright, Miss James, let’s hear the rest of your list.” Anthea’s brow pulled into a frown.

 “Oh, no, sir. I’m doing this now. You’re going to go have a nice cup of tea from that stupid club.”

He’d brought her back a cappuccino and a slice of cake.

* * *

 

The third time she knew before anyone else.

She’d been woken up at two in the morning and told to head to the office to search CCTV footage. She’d booted up her computer and spent the next three hours searching and searching through the footage, heart racing in her chest, looking for any small detail that might help. Dealers he was known to associate with, weird activity in the homeless network, a break in at a lab, anything.

At five in the morning, before Anthea could find anything relevant, Mycroft came into the office wearing the same suit from the night before. Anthea felt herself physically relax. If he was hear that means Sherlock wasn’t in the hospital. That he was going to be okay, at least for now.

Then Mycroft had lowered his hand to reveal bruises already forming around his eyes and blood stains under his nose. His nose was broken. Anthea gasped and got out of her seat.

 “Mycroft!” She exclaimed, rushing over to him. Carefully she pushed him over to the couch, despite protests, and forced him to sit down. Gently she placed her index fingers on either side of the bridge of his nose. The man hissed and pulled away. Anthea clicked her tongue in pity. Yup, it was definitely broken. “Oh, Mycroft.” She sighed. “What happened?” The man in question tried to scowl but found it hurt too much.

 “What do you think happened?” There was no real malice in his voice. Anthea’s heart broke and she just wanted to reach out and stroke Mycroft’s face. She knew when he was a really regular drug user and had initially tried to quit, that there’d been a time or two that Sherlock had hit Mycroft, but in her years working for the elder brother, she’d never seen it.

 “I’m so sorry.” She sighed, stroking his arm once as she turned to head to the kitchenette. She took a handful of tissues and wet them, then went to the freezer to take out an ice pack.

 “Why are you apologizing?” He asked bitterly.

 “I empathise with your pretty face.” Anthea offered, trying to be light, as she walked back into the room. Mycroft watched her wearily. As she lifted the wet tissues he pulled out of her reach. “Let me help.” She levelled with him, looking into his steel eyes. He sighed and relented, letting his assistant wipe away the blood. As the blood was removed the injury started to look less severe. His eyes were going to darken though, no doubt about that, and if they didn’t put the icepack on soon there would be swelling.

 “The good news is he gave me his list.” He sighed. “And there’s no danger of an immediate overdose.” It’s a shame that’s what they accepted as good news. Anthea handed over the ice pack. Mycroft took it silently and held it to his nose. Anthea went over and threw the bloodied tissues in the waste bin by her desk.

 “Are you going to book him back into a rehab centre?” Mycroft’s face went stony once more as he nodded. “I’ll inform Lestrade. Maybe he can search Sherlock’s flat while he’s away.”

 A pause.

 “Thank you.” She didn’t answer, not verbally anyway. The brunette woman came and sat next to Mycroft on the couch so their shoulders were just touching. “You look exhausted and I’m bleeding. I don’t think either of us are exactly in the shape to work today, my dear, do you?” Anthea sniffed a laugh, looking down at her black heels. She shook her head.

 “No, I don’t think so, sir.” She smiled at him.

 “Then why don’t you go home?”

A pause.

 “Or.” She winced, wondering how her next words would go down. “We could go get breakfast somewhere. Eat our feelings and then make the calls to rehab and Lestrade together.” Mycroft frowned as he looked the woman up and down.

 “That doesn’t sound very healthy, my dear.” He hummed. Anthea lightly pouted.

 “You don’t want to do it, then?”

 “No, I absolutely want to do it.” Anthea felt her lips pull into a smile as she leaned closer to Mycroft.

 “Nothing like bad food to make you feel better.”

Good company helped, too.

He paid for breakfast.

* * *

 

The fourth time John was there. Mycroft was forced to leave, with a sore wrist and a bruised ego.

John dealt with Sherlock. Anthea hugged Mycroft.

* * *

 

The next time she missed it.

Mycroft looked positively lost as he entered the office. He slugged of his coat and his scarf and placed them on the coat rack. As he took off his gloves, Anthea could practically see the weight of the world on his shoulders. His eyes were the saddest she’d ever seen them. It was heart wrenching but so very confusing. She’d seen the Moriarty broadcast with her own eyes. Surely that meant that Sherlock had been called home. Surely that meant the almost certainly fatal mission had been cancelled.

Mycroft didn’t even try to force a smile onto his face as his deep blue eyes landed on Anthea. His face was drawn down and he seemed lost within himself. Anthea felt her own frown deepening, her lips pushing into a pout, as she tilted her head.

 “He’s home, yeah?” She asked, sounding a little uncertain. Mycroft inhaled sharply and nodded. Anthea hesitated. “But?” She asked, voice low.

 “There was a list.” It was a little over a whisper and it sounded so pained. Anthea felt a hand tighten around her heart as she shut her eyes, sighing harshly.

 “Oh, no.” She shook her head. She licked her lips as she let herself study Mycroft. “Can I see it?” He looked at her, thinking. She wondered if he was going to deny her this, if he was going to say something instead. But no, he walked over to her desk.

Out of his breast pocket he pulled his little black book. Holding it by only one of the covers, he gave the book a gentle shake. Falling like snowflakes came little ripped up pieces of paper. Apparently Sherlock had ripped the list up in Mycroft’s face, but the elder brother had collected the pieces anyway. The hand around her heart squeezed as tight as it could, and Anthea could feel her eyes welling up.

Anthea got immediately to her feet, her heels clicking as she made her way to the opposite side of her desk where the melancholy genius stood. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled the taller man into a tight, long hug, refusing to let go. She felt his arms wrap around her waist. She pulled one arm free and stroked his hair.

 “I’m losing him, Anthea.” She heard Mycroft whisper into her hair. “I’m losing him.”

 “I’ll be here for you.” She answered, shaking her head against his shoulder. “Countless times, I’ll be here.”

**Author's Note:**

> So, what do we think? Alright? I took the prompt and opened it up. They said one before or the one from TAB. I needed to expand on it more. Please let me know what you thought, I look forward to it. If you like go have a look at my other Mythea and/or Kidlock fics, or whatever. Thanks so much for reading!


End file.
